the truth
by Amarxlen
Summary: Just as he found her in the water, the boom of a cannon sounded for the final time. / She never noticed only her body left the arena.
1. Chapter 1

The name echoed in his head, in the silence of the town square. For a long moment all he could do was simply stand there in disbelief. He had never foreseen this happening, not even in his darkest nightmares. He had survived the Games, even though he would always be caught in their clutches, but he never expected this.

Her dark hair moved surely through the crowd, she walked steadily to the platform, but he knew what she was holding back, he knew her true nature. She was petrified, screaming inside, this timid girl who would never be able to lift a finger against her competitors.

Against his urge to never let her from his sight, he looked over at the girls, standing there silently, some of them trembling. Was it with relief? At that moment he hated them, wished he had a trident gripped in his hands to use against them, all those cowering girls and the man who beckoned the District 4 female tribute to the stage.

″VOLUNTEER,″ he wanted to scream at them. ″Can't you see there's no way she'll come back?″ But that was the problem. They all knew. And that was why nobody volunteered, why nobody was willing to save her life.

Fine, he decided. It would be up to him to make sure that this tribute, this tribute especially, came back alive. She disappeared behind the stage, as though the Capitol had already swallowed her whole, and her name disappeared with her.

″Annie Cresta!″

* * *

Two tributes stood before him, but he only cared about one.

″I will speak to you both individually,″ he said after a long silence, in which he had watched her, trying her hardest not to tremble, but unable to completely hold it back. He hardly gave the male tribute a second glance. ″You first,″ he told the young girl. Her lips moved as if to form the question, ″Me?″ but no sound came out.

Mags watched him, not with a question in her eyes, but a knowing look and ushered the male tribute from the room, closing the door behind them. Once he was sure they had left, he focused his attention fully on her.

″Have a seat,″ he gestured to the chairs in the room, sinking into one himself. He wasn't sure if he could continue standing. She surprised him by shaking her head, her curls swaying with the movement.

″I'll stand,″ she whispered, and though he thought she might collapse from fear and exhaustion, he didn't press her. He nodded at her and another silence stretched through the room. They were alone as he had wanted, but now he had no idea what to say to her. ″It's okay″ or ″I'm here″ or ″It'll be fine″? No, none of those, for none of them meant anything. It was not okay and it would never be again.

″Annie,″ he breathed, lacing his fingers together and holding them in front of his mouth. Her eyes met his and he didn't let them go as he said, ″I promise, I will do everything in my power to make sure you make it out alive.″ That at least, was the truth.

* * *

They stood before the transport tube that would take her to the world above—the arena. She stared at it, wide-eyed with fear, trembling, as it seemed she hadn't stopped since the day they called her name. She lifted her hand, and he thought she meant to touch it, to make sure it was real, but then she snapped her hand back and turned to him.

″Finnick, I can't do this,″ she said desperately, reaching for him. He took her into his arms and stroked her hair, his gut clenching as he heard her muffled, ″I'm going to die.″

″No, Annie, no.″ He put his hands on her shoulders and gently, firmly pushed her away from him. Her sea-green eyes swam in tears and he reached up to cup her cheek in his hand. ″Remember what we talked about,″ he told her, ″Annie, do you remember?″ She nodded jerkily, still trembling.

″Hide,″ she whispered and he nodded back at her. It had become apparent during their training that she had no special skills with weapons, camouflage, or even basic survival. He had tried, with no success, to teach her how to wield a trident or at least weave a net to trap her competitors. So, although it killed him that this was all he could do for her, he told her to hide.

"That's right. That's all you have to do. The other tributes...″ He thought of the eager face of the male tribute, the one who had told him ″I will protect Annie.″ ″They'll take care of themselves,″ he told her, praying that this young boy would keep his promise and protect her. He didn't like to think of what this promise would mean to the other tribute he had mentored, he only allowed himself to think that with this Annie would be able to survive.

The timer that counted down the moments to the Games flashed down at them, and the transport tube opened. With less resistance than he had anticipated, she stepped forward into the tube, calmly walking towards a fight to the death. His arms felt cold, empty of her and then the door fell down between them. She began to panic again, wide eyed as her hands pressed against the chamber. He pressed his hands against hers, even as the tube began to lift her away, their eyes never leaving each other.

″Remember, Annie,″ he whispered. But this time he wasn't talking about survival strategy.

* * *

He didn't want to, but he couldn't stop, couldn't stop watching as the District 2 male tribute walked closer to where they were hiding. Closer to where Annie was hiding. So far the District 4 male tribute had kept his promise to keep her safe. But the tribute from District 2 had been cutting down his competition without any effort. His heart beat wildly in his chest.

The District 2 tribute looked up and smiled and Finnick knew—he'd found them. The tribute he had mentored jumped down from the tree, as graceful as a monkey, to land on the District 2 tribute and the pair fell to the ground, a wild struggle of fists and a sword and then—

A scream rang out through the arena and Finnick was glad that there were only two tributes left to hear it, two, because the male tribute from District 4 had just been killed. His head rolled across the ground, but the District 2 tribute paid no mind to him. Instead, he grinned wildly up into the tree where Annie hid, and began to climb it.

″You're next,″ he promised, trying to maneuver his sword out of his way so he could climb easier.

″Run,″ Finnick whispered, inches away from the television screen as if somehow his proximity to it would make it so that she could hear him. By some stroke of luck, it seemed that she heard him: the camera zoomed in on her face just as she reached a decision. She jumped from the tree, landing hard on her palms and knees, but as bad as the drop looked she jumped right back up and started running as fast as she could away from her final competitor.

The District 2 tribute dropped from the tree in order to pursue her, but she had a head start and was well on her way to the dam that she had first passed on her way to her hiding place. He was beginning to think she might be able to outrun him and hide again and was starting to feel hope that she could win after all—

When the dam broke out from underneath her feet in a rush of water that immediately began to flood the entire arena. The view switched to the District 2 tribute skidding to a stop, but he was too close to the water already. It swept up on him, knocking his feet out from underneath him and he disappeared beneath the waves. He couldn't feel relief at the fact that it appeared this tribute could not swim because he still had no sight of Annie.

The camera zoomed out for a wide view of the worst of the flooding, and he searched for the dark spot that would mean she was afloat and alive. Just as he found her in the water, the boom of a canon sounded for the final time. His heart stopped in his chest and resumed gratefully only a few moments later as they allowed a close up view of the victor. The female tribute from District 4.

Her mentor fell to his knees, covering his face with his hands. Mags laid a hand on his shoulder as he whispered in disbelief, ″She won.″

* * *

Every morning, he would wake up, dress, and walk over to Annie Cresta's new house in the Victors' Village. And every morning he would find her, wide awake in her bed, staring out her window. She hardly did anything else since she came back from the Games. A good day was when he could get her to the dining room to eat. She didn't speak to anyone, not even him and he hadn't seen her show any emotion since she came back either. And so, day after day, he would visit her, hoping that day would be when she finally returned to him for real.

He passed her father, who nodded at him as he made a breakfast that nobody would eat, and made his way up the stairs. Pushing open the door, he was met with the same sight he had seen every morning for half a year. Annie, sitting in her bed, staring out her bedroom window. He sat down next to her, brushing her hair back from her ear. But he might as well have not even been there, for all the attention he earned from her.

Automatically, he reached for her hair, teasing his fingers through it as he had begun to learn she loved—he remembered the way her eyes would close in pleasure as she reclined back into his touch. While he was with her, time became nothing. He stayed there from the moment the sun rose until the moment it set again, but this was the first day that he differed from their established routine.

″C'mon, Annie,″ he pleaded, maneuvering so that he knelt before her on the bed. Gently, he took her face in his hands and forced her to look at him. But even as she looked at him, she wasn't seeing him. ″I kept my promise. The least you can do is come back to me,″ he said desperately.

And then finally, miraculously, she looked him dead in the eyes, and as she saw him, Annie grabbed his hands, still on her cheeks—and began laughing hysterically. She laughed until her laughter dissolved into tears, and it was then that he regained his senses enough to pull her into his arms and comfort her. Her arms hung limply at her sides and her tears quickly soaked through the fabric of his shirt.

″Shh, Annie, shh,″ he murmured into her hair, although all he felt like doing was sobbing himself. Whether in guilt or relief, he didn't know or care. Her fingers grasped at his shirt, but they slipped down, trembling, only to lift and try to grab onto it again, until she was simply stroking his chest.

″Finnick,″ she gasped, ″Finnick.″ He clutched her closer.

″I'm here, Annie, I'm here.″

She took a great shuddering breath and her fingers found purchase in the folds of his shirt. ″How do you bear it?″ She clenched her fingers. ″How do you live?″

He had no answer for her, and they sat there in silence until she fell into a restless sleep and the sun sank low upon the horizon. That day was the last he heard sane words pass her lips.


	2. Chapter 2

″Hide,″ he told her, ″Hide.″ But he never told her what to do if she was found. He never told her what to do if she was one of two left. He never told her what to do if the boy from her district— The train of thought made her feel nauseous and as she ran, to keep herself from slowing or giving up, she remembered the shape his lips made as he spoke to her as she was raised into the arena. She didn't know what he said, but the impression of his lips was with her when the water crashed over her head.

Her first instinct was to panic, but her limbs fought their way through the current into their familiar patterns of keeping her afloat and no sooner had her head broke through the water than she heard the sound of the cannon going off. She blinked in surprise and realized: she was still alive to blink. The hovercraft took its time getting to her, but the water was comforting and in it, she imagined Finnick's arms caressing her. She never noticed only her body left the arena.

* * *

Under the careful watch of the drug the Capitol had fed her to make her sleep, she had the most terrifying nightmares she had ever experienced.

The water was rising above her head and her limbs had forgotten the ingrained movements that would keep her from falling deeper. Through the haze of bubbles and blood, thinned to a pale red, a shadow drew closer to her with unbelievable speed, until it was finally close enough to recognize as the District 2 tribute, sword in hand. Suddenly, her arms weren't just useless—they were weighted down with a heavy burden. When she looked down, it was to find the head of the dead tribute, her ally, her fellow from District 4, staring up at her, mouth distorted in terror, eyes staring up at her accusingly. She knew it was her duty to get what remained of him back to the surface, unable to let him go to drift alone in the ocean, but her arms were full and then the tribute from District 2 was upon them and raising his sword, and she could see the power in his arms waiting to be unleashed.

She screamed, trapped in the water and unable to break free.

When she awoke, it was in his arms, wrapped around her underneath the white hospital blanket. Her heart thudded in her chest and for a long, terrifying moment, she thought that this was the Capitol's most recent cruelty, to send him back into the arena with her. She lay there silently, aware that any movement could send other tributes down upon them to fight for the so called glory of being victor. She wanted nothing more than to wake him and ask him why he was in the arena, and how were they both going to live, but she knew sleep was hard to come by, and wanted him to be as rested as possible for the coming challenges.

He woke so quickly and completely, eyes already alert and focused so she knew he had never left his own arena, instead dreading whatever lay around the next corner. Ashamed, she realized how much calmer she was now that he was back at her side, so relieved that it left no room to feel panicked at how he had come to be there.

″Why are you here?″ She whispered, praying there were no tributes close enough to hear her. His brow furrowed slightly in confusion. ″I'm here because of you.″

Her eyes widened and brimmed with tears. The Capitol had stolen him because of her, to punish her. It must have been a terrible spectacle, her winning the Games by default because the tribute that should have won simply couldn't swim. And so they had put him in with her and were going to make them fight until only one came out.

″I'm so sorry, Finnick. You shouldn't be here.″ She looked at him desperately, wondering if he would ever forgive her. ″You should be home.″ When his hand found her hair, weaving through it, she closed her eyes to enjoy the sensation and instead saw the spear that had come so close to finding her, its target that she had felt it skim the sleeve of her shirt. Her eyes snapped open and she sucked in a breath, still careful not to be too loud.

″We will go home. As soon as the final interview is done, I'll take you home.″ His words didn't make sense to her. 'We' as in both of them? But how could that be possible? Only one person made it out of the arena.

″Where are we,″ she asked him, terribly unsure of herself and her senses. His fingers had reached the ends of her hair and started back up at her roots. If he thought her question strange, he didn't hint at it.

″The Capitol. A hospital in the Capitol.″ Silence followed his words and all in an instant, she seemed to collapse on herself and her tears escaped in a gasp. Without missing a beat, he pulled her closer, as though he had been waiting for this the whole time and made gentle shushing noises to calm her.

″It looks like the arena. It feels like the tributes are still searching for me.″ He didn't ridicule or chastise her for being silly, he didn't tell her she was wrong.

He reassured her, ″It's the Capitol, I'm the only one here.″ He continued murmuring phrases meant to soothe her, and he never stopped stroking her hair. But the Capitol wasn't much better than the arena.

* * *

She picked at the fabric of her blue gown, unsure of what she, the accidental victor, was doing here, sitting next to Ceaser Flickerman. Her hair had been pulled back with pins that poked into her scalp, her stylist had said it was to reveal her eyes, which he had grudgingly labeled her best feature. Her pale skin and dark hair didn't fit in with his ideal of beauty.

The crowd was getting impatient with her, whispering among themselves when she couldn't answer Ceaser's questions. It wasn't because she wouldn't, she just had no idea what to say to him, no idea how to tell these people what she was slowly beginning to understand: That she was damaged beyond repair. And so the words never came to her, not until Ceaser asked her what she was most looking forward to when she returned home.

She looked him in the eyes, remembering his same cajoling, needling questions, trying to make children being sent to the slaughter seem interesting and remarkable, worth spending money on. Another friendly mask in a pit full of lions, playing with their food and releasing it, crippled, to live a half life.

″I'll be able to spend everyday with him,″ she answered slowly, and ignored the rest of his attempts to convince her to tell him, the Capitol, the whole world who ″he″ was. That was knowledge that would remain only between her and him. It was the one thing that the Capitol couldn't touch.

* * *

As time went by, instead of getting easier, the days got harder. Her mind wandered back to the Games more easily than it ever had and she saw the arena everywhere. And slowly, doubt crept in. She heard everyone talk about Finnick's lovers in the Capitol, she heard the whispers of the Capitol citizens and even those in her own district pitying ″that poor, mad girl″. Her prep team paraded her reluctantly across the world once more, and she knew that, had Finnick not been at her side the whole time, she would never have had the strength to make it out onto those stages, though she kept up her stoic silence of inability to answer and everyone lost interest in the accidental victor of District 4.

She and her father had a new house in the Victor's Village and he tried to cheer her with optimism and pleasure at their new situation—fed well, living well, together again, her home—but even home could never be safe again. The birds outside her window held the whispers, the curses, the pleading of all her fellow tributes, dead. They whispered to her, ″Poor little mad girl. Nobody there for her, not even her mentor.″ They cursed at her, ″How could you win? You are nothing, you have _no_ talents!″ They pleaded with her, ″Please, help us! Please don't leave us behind!″

But she was leaving them, and she did win, and she was going mad, too confused and unsure of herself to fight against it. She didn't understand how he could desert her as he had, how he could promise to take her home and then never show his face again. He wasn't there to stop water from becoming the flooded arena, he wasn't there to stop the District 2 tribute from coming for her in her sleep, he wasn't there to stop the head of the District 4 tribute from rolling across her bedroom floor. The only comfort came from staring out her window, and still their voices tormented her.

It was in the midst of the tributes yelling at her that she felt the hands on her face, directing her to look at something she still couldn't see when they had finished repositioning her. But then came the voice, and it was as if she were waking through a heavy fog.

″I kept my promise. The least you can do is come back to me.″ The voice was desperate, concerned, _full of love_, and suddenly she could see him, clearer than she had seen anything in a long time. It was _Finnick_, and he was _there_, and he was worried for her, and he hadn't left her after all—

But she had to be sure. She reached up, her small hands finding his, and she couldn't help the sudden rush of overwhelming relief. The laughter burst out of her without warning, and she found that once she had started, she couldn't stop. So she laughed and laughed, feeling safer and madder than she ever had when it was just her alone, and then she began to cry, because she had never been more terrified of what hid in her mind and what it would do to her, because she couldn't stop it.

His arms wrapped around her, and he pulled her into his lap, doing his best to comfort her, not knowing that his presence was all she needed. She reached up to grab his shirt, but her fingers slipped from the fabric. Frustrated, she tried again and again with the same results, but refused to give up, until she was stroking his chest.

″Finnick,″ she gasped, needing confirmation of his existence. ″Finnick,″ she said again, pleading inside her head for him to answer her, for him to speak again, anything, just so she could hear his voice.

″I'm here, Annie, I'm here.″ And she finally believed him, even as the dead tributes kept telling her it was all in her head, that he was another illusion her mind had created. But she had to know, and as her fingers finally grabbed hold of his shirt, so did they grab hold in another thought. Finnick had been in the Games. Finnick had come out. Finnick had found a way to cope, she was not so naïve as to believe he was not damaged as well. She had to know.

″How do you bear it?″ Her fingers tightened in his shirt. ″How do you live?″

He never answered her, and as darkness fell around them and his fingers kept stroking her hair, she forgot she had ever asked him at all.


End file.
